To my dozen or so readers:
Writing All Wrong will be taking another hiatus.
Supply and demand, as usual. There’s a little more demand in other realms of life that dictate my supply for the next while.
I’ll catch you all later. Happy writing. Don’t do it wrong.
If you’re new, peruse the archives. There’s enough there to set you straight.
H2
Ever metaphor you didn’t like? Wait, no – but yes, maybe I did.
(That was lame.)
That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.
What make a good metaphor, cultural or otherwise?
—Jaime Latcheson, Franklin, Pa.
Whoa. People don’t ask such questions these days. Most just assume that can write because they can string a sentence together. Bravo.
This could make for a whole series, but I’ll pass.
Extended metaphor
This is where you “come out and say it” by not saying it, a la Moby-Dick in Moby-Dick (an extended metaphor about, the universe or something) or the Mississippi River in [anything by Mark Twain]. Like a symbol, it’s presence pervades, backdropping the story with underlying, unspoken meaning.
So make it big, but not obvious. A mural explaining the character’s history? A wall of hieroglyphics? No.
Apprehension
Metaphor is both won and lost on its audience. Good luck if you’re plying your trade in science fiction and fantasy, because only you will get the references if you’re writing about “her eyes were bluish, time-refractive orbs that shone with the steadfastness of a pulse controller,” or “Charl’s reign was a fire-coated, scorpion-tailed Wyrxshith raining down spite and misery upon the peasants.”
Make it recognizable, unless your readers are you.
Getting too fancy
Let’s take this example (from Wikipedia, no less): “The man’s arm exploded with pain, spiderwebs of fire crawling up and down its length as the tire of a passing car crushed it.”
Exploded with pain? I get that.
Spiderwebs of fire? Huh? You lost me. I don’t care if you’re aiming for shape. Even if you’re able to get a spiderweb to burn for longer than a second, I’ll be damned if you get it to crawl.
Getting creative
“Her face radiated, a rising sun of happiness working her way through her dainty features.”
“He stared ice cold into the obsidian rock of night.”
Oh. My. God. I have never before seen happiness compared to sunrise, nor cold compared to staring before! You must be a genius, an unparalleled craftsman among writers. I would never have thought to join such images. Amazing.
Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).
Description. There’s an art to it. Writers miss it when they fumble the juggle between showing and telling, and there’s nothing worse than an overeager wordsmith slathering on words like blobs of paint to make for a Pollockian tapestry.
Description doesn’t quite work that way. You’re telling a story. Don’t forget that part.
That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.
Could you give me a few pointers on my descriptive paragraph?
“Caked mud gripped the desolate path. The faceless sky breathed a white empty fire. Nocturnal whispers retreated from the land like reverse rays of beaming sun. Rocks rose with purple resilience amid the bleak soil. Lonely black trees danced solitary in a faint breeze. A weary shadow heralded the traveler’s coming.”
—Caleb Hilton, Bothell, WA
I’ll give you one pointer: start over.
This isn’t describing anything. These are wasted words slapping into dull thuds, lacking any sort of verve in sentence structure. You’ve colored with shimmering paints, muddying the canvas with unclear blobs and no definition.
Description isn’t how many fancy words you string together, or how many words you can check off from your “Thesaurus Rex of Awesome.”
I’d only keep the last sentence, if that. Tell your story first. Make something move. Draw those lines, color within them as you go.
Description without meaning is an empty art. When things “move,” your reader will fill in the gaps, letting you interject to fill in the rest. I can look at an Epic Fantasy Picture Book if I want scenery. But you’re a writer. Give me a story worth describing. We’ll get there.
Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).
The Life Autistic 